


burn for you

by chocolatemoon



Series: our love is gonna conquer it all [1]
Category: Soy Luna (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, basically no plot, mostly just matteo being completely in love with luna, some introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-15 03:55:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15404403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolatemoon/pseuds/chocolatemoon
Summary: It still comes as a surprise to him that her touch doesn't leave sunburns on his skin.





	burn for you

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is connected to "melt for me", but can be read on its own since they don't really have anything to do with each other plot-wise.
> 
> Originally posted on my tumblr.

**i.**

Bubbly chatter rises up from the street like the swirl of smoke from a blown out candle. The language is as familiar as the city surrounding him, as comforting as cherished childhood memories, but the words no longer hold that enchanting rhythm he once loved.

He sits on the windowsill, staring up at the night sky. The moon is a crescent tonight; a glowing sliver in the deep blue. A blade slicing his chest open like a piece of fruit, carving out his emotions, leaving him aching and hollow.

Everything is exactly like he remembered it, yet nothing feels the same. It’s as if he’s observing the world from behind a stained glass wall. Shapes are distorted, colors mixed up. The only thing that is clear and recognizable is the nagging reminder that he’s in a place far, far away from where he wants to be.

He doesn’t have to wonder why he’s feeling so low. The answer can be found with one look in the mirror. Tracing the lines in the palms of his hands, or listening to the irregular pace of his heartbeat whenever he fantasizes about twinkling, green eyes and a smile sweeter than any fairytale.

He’s not the same person anymore.

“Do you ever feel lonely?” he asks out loud, his question directed to no one in particular, though his eyes are lingering on the moon.

He never thought being in love would hurt this much. If anything, he always imagined it would set him free. Make him lighter. Ignite a spark that can never be put out. Ironically, in some ways it has. Love struck a match within him – now he has no choice but to deal with the flames all by himself.

“Yeah,” he murmurs when enough minutes have gone by, his gaze falling down to the rooftops, “me neither.”

 

**ii.**

He wishes he could blame the gods for scribbling, _belongs with Luna Valente_ , with a permanent marker on his destiny. He wishes he could pin it on someone else, whether it be fate or a deity or even another human being. Some days he still has a hard time believing that this has happened to him. He was minding his own business, living blissfully unaware of the heaviness of real love. Now his heart has become so _raw_ from its attempts at unlearning years of selfishness that he barely recognizes the old parts of himself anymore.

He could lie and claim that he hasn’t gotten affected, that he hasn’t changed, but anyone – even a total stranger – would be able to see through it. Luna’s got him completely hooked, turned him into some kind of lovesick fool.

“Is it so bad to be a fool then? If it’s because of love?” Gastón comments one day in between classes. Matteo searches for an objection, a joke,  _anything_ , but there’s no such luck.

(Damn Gastón and his habit of always being right.)

 

**iii.**

It still comes as a surprise to him that her touch doesn’t leave sunburns on his skin.

She’s that type of person that just _radiates_ positive vibes. Her optimism is contagious; it’s difficult singing the blues when Luna is in the same room. She spots sadness in him so easily, too. Whenever he’s a bit more quiet, a bit more subdued than usual, she always seems to know how to cheer him up. A smile directed at him that makes him smile in return. A hug that sets his insides ablaze. A kiss that gives life to a hundred tiny fireflies in his stomach. (Because butterflies are _so cliché_ … that’s all.)

He can’t deny that she makes everything brighter. Her soothing words and angelic presence have changed his outlook on life. She inspires him, challenges him, forces him to discard the image of himself he’s wasted so much time on.

Or, okay, maybe that’s not the entire truth. He is in love, but he still has a mind of his own. He _wants_ to become better. He _wants_ to let go and just fall.

And so he does.

 

**iv.**

Two days after Luna’s eighteenth birthday, they go out to eat at a restaurant together with their friends, which leads to the whole group trying to fit at the same table. Everyone’s being loud and in high spirits – the perfect atmosphere for a celebration – and Luna’s in the center of it all, wearing her widest grin.

Matteo feels as if he’s glowing from the inside out just by being so close to her. Everything she does has him captivated, every small quirk of hers more endearing than he’s willing to admit. Her amused laughs. Her enthusiastic hand gestures while talking. The blush on her face that she fails to cover up when he whispers something cheeky in her ear. The kiss she gives him when everyone else is too busy digging into their food like a pack of starving wolves to notice. (Clearly, none of them has been taught any manners, but he’s somewhat grateful for that, or else he wouldn’t have gotten kissed.)

At one point – while Jim and Yam are struggling to tell a story without laughing every five seconds – she gives him a curious look with one eyebrow raised, silently asking if everything’s alright. He smiles reassuringly and nods, and she places her hand over his on the table.

 _Of course I’m alright_ , he thinks as his fingers lace through hers. _I’m happy. And it’s because of you, it’s always because of you. How can I not be alright when I have you by my side?_

He wonders if she’s suddenly learned how to read minds, because the next thing she does is lean in and kiss him again.

 

**v.**

_“You’re very important to me.”_

He nearly trips over his own feet, almost dropping his phone on the pavement in the process, but regains his footing in the last second. A passer-by – who’s most likely been walking behind him up until now – shoots him an odd look, and he smiles apologetically. He holds the phone to his ear again, though he can’t come up with a response. (Yes, it _is_ possible to make him speechless.)

It’s not that this sort of statement is new to him (nor that it comes so out of the blue – if Luna thinks something, she’ll say it, no matter what the previous topic was about). While he’s definitely the more vocal type when it comes to declarations of love, she’s never been one to hold back what she feels.

No, it’s because of the language she used – Italian.

“I pronounced it correctly, didn’t I?”

He nods. Realizes she’s unable to see it, and replies, “Yeah, it was correct.”

He can practically _hear_ her beaming smile through the phone. Can easily picture her tucking her hair behind her ear as she says, “I’ve been taking a class.”

 _For_ me _?_

Does he even dare ask it? He settles with the less insecure, “Why?”

“Oh, you know … I just thought I should learn it. Or at least a little. The class is for beginners, so it’s all very basic. I was planning on telling you later today, but it kind of slipped out. I’ve been practicing that phrase for, like, half a week. I wasn’t entirely sure about what I wanted to say, but I thought of something along the lines of how much you mean to me, and how proud of you I am, and then I was like, ‘wait, when did I get so cheesy?’, so then I thought that–” She laughs. “I’m not making any sense. Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. That was nowhere near your usual incoherent rambling.”

“Don’t be mean.”

“Honest,” he counters and she laughs again, lighter, probably shaking her head at his frankness.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

He peers up at the sky. The sun takes a break from hiding behind the clouds to say hello. A bird is chirping somewhere nearby. His lips curve into a smile.

_Lucky indeed._

 

**vi.**

He’s a taker. Luna’s a giver.

In theory, that’s what makes them the perfect match. In reality, it’s another piece of wood thrown into the fire, another motive fueling his fears.

He’s scared, so scared, _so fucking scared_ , that one day there will be nothing left of her, that her light will flicker and die because she’s used up all of it to shine over the darkest pieces of his soul. And if that isn’t the case, then surely his arrogance and pride will be their downfall. He has disappointed her before. He’s going to do it again.

It’s melodramatic – ridiculous, really – but he can’t stop these thoughts from invading his mind. She’ll ruin herself by staying with him, he’s certain of it.

But then she calls him when he’s at work, or squeezes his hand during dinner with his parents, or cries tears of joy the day he proposes, and every tiny little drop of doubt in him dries up. He sometimes forgets that she’s no longer the sixteen year old girl who believed everything people told her, even when they were evidently lying to her face. She isn’t oblivious or dumb, nor is she fragile. She’s grown into a strong, beautiful woman with the power of a thunderstorm running in her blood.

He tends to forget that she’s chosen this, that she’s chosen him – the good and the bad and everything in between. She’s seen all of his imperfections, witnessed the ugliest of his flaws, and yet she’s decided that he’s worthy of her. (She’s even wearing a ring nowadays to prove it – something he’ll never get used to.)

If only he had the vocabulary to be able to tell her how much she means to him.

 

**vii.**

He finds her in the kitchen, sitting at the table and drinking water, ice cubes clinking inside the glass. He sits down, takes her left hand in both of his, one of his thumbs beginning to absentmindedly brush over her knuckles.

The silence is disrupted when she speaks up.

“I dreamt about you last night.”

“Was it a good dream?” A second meaning behind the words slips into his tone, which he knows she has no difficulty picking up on. He waits for the inevitable, “ _you can be so insufferable, Matteo_ ,” but it never comes.

She’s staring down at the table, her brow slightly furrowed and her lower lip caught between her teeth.

“What happened? Was it scary, or was I mean to you, or–”

“No. No, nothing like that. It was …” She puts the glass down, runs the tip of her index finger along the rim, once, presumably recalling the details of the dream. “… nice.”

“Okay, now I’m getting curious.”

“Stop smirking. Do you want to hear it or not?”

He nods, doing his best to look serious. He brings her hand to his lips, and kisses her fingertips one by one. Gives her open palm a kiss, too. She watches him, her green eyes shimmering in the burning light that’s coming in through the window. The sunset is more than welcome; today’s been the hottest day of the year, and he’s still a little sweaty.

“Okay, so … we were on a beach. The sand was _really_ warm under our bare feet, almost scalding. The sky was endlessly blue, just like the ocean. We walked near the water, talking, but I can’t remember the conversation.” A content smile replaces the pensive expression on her face. “Anyway, we stopped, you looked at me and said that you love me.”

It’s quiet for about four seconds.

“That’s it?”

“Yup.”

“But that’s so …”

“Normal? Ordinary? I know. That’s what made it so nice.”

An emotion way too similar to adoration claws at the inside of his throat. She’s smiling and he’s in awe. How strange it is that something as simple as him loving her fills her with such happiness.

So he says it, this short sentence that rolls off his tongue without a second thought, these few words that are somehow brighter than all of the stars combined. And he means them, he truly means them. More than he did yesterday, less than he’ll do tomorrow. He can’t help it – every time he senses it, thinks it, he has to let it out.

In moments like this she makes him feel seventeen again; back when love sounded like a total myth until someone showed him the opposite. As terrifying as it seemed, he’s glad he took the chance and let his heart determine which path to follow. He wouldn’t be sitting here with the woman he gets to call his wife ( _fuck_ , will he ever get used to it?) if he hadn’t.

 

**viii.**

Her lips hover over his; a distance so short it might not even exist.

“You know,” she whispers, and her upper lip grazes his for a split second. There’s nothing he’d rather do than bridge the minuscule space between their mouths, but he’s going to be patient and wait for her to make the first move. After a heartbeat or two, she continues, “I still find you intolerable sometimes.”

He grins.

“Oh, shut up,” she says with a laugh.

Then she kisses him.


End file.
